You always suck at aikido

It’s close to midnight, and I am sitting with one of the senior students of Kokikai Aikido. We’ve been talking about all sorts of aspects of aikido training and the evolution of technique over time. As we continue to talk, I mention that one of the things I have a hard time with is that there always seems to be another level of proficiency; that a technique I could have sworn I had down one week is not working nearly so well the next. He looks at me, and responds: "You know why that is? It’s because you always suck at aikido."

The words are a jolt. You always suck at aikido? This is NOT what I signed on for. You start a martial art to become an expert at it, don’t you? To be told that you will never be good at it seems…disheartening at best.

The explanation that I was given, however, made sense. The art of aikido is one of constant refinement. In Kokikai Aikido especially, we are taught to continually analyze our techniques and strategies. As we refine our movements, we internally raise the bar of what we expect out of ourselves. Essentially, once we understand how to move better, faster, and more efficiently, we won’t accept anything on the mat that falls short of our new level. The problem, of course, is that it takes time and practice to make this new level the norm of your practice. So it is not uncommon for you to struggle with a technique–it’s not that you can’t do it, it’s that you can’t do it at which you want to do it.

This cycle has been borne out many times in my own training. For example, when I first learned tsuki kotegaeshi (a response to a punch in which you rotate your opponent’s wrist out and away from them, resulting in their loss of balance), I was instructed to keep my opponent’s wrist low, and the rotation of that wrist as tight as possible. This resulted in a relatively effective technique, but it had two drawbacks: first, it really cranked on your opponent’s wrist; second, opponent’s with thick wrists were very hard to throw without injuring them. Over time, I learned that a more efficient way to do the technique was to keep your opponent’s arm close to their body and then extend it behind them. This modification stretched the uke out more, resulting in an increase in loss of balance and a decrease in the amount of torque on the wrist. An excellent and effective refinement, but it took a long time before I could make it work reliably. Yet, because I had spent so long studying the old way of applying the technique, I knew I could always fall back to it and make the old way work. But that wasn’t good enough. I wanted to do the technique in the newer, more efficient way. Over time, the new way eventually supplanted the old way, as I got better at understanding how to apply. And what happened next? The technique became more refined again–and the process started anew.

And this is what was meant by saying you always suck at aikido–you are always striving to hit the next level, and each time you improve, there’s yet another layer of refinement to implement. It certainly doesn’t meant that the techniques don’t work–it just means that we are never satisfied with our current capabilities. I have trained long enough that I know how to throw someone (in most cases–I won’t claim to be perfect), but that doesn’t mean that I’m satisfied with the level at which I execute the technique. Perhaps this is part of the attraction of aikido–it is an art in which you are in a continual state of refinement, yet it incorporates this cycle of improvement without sacrificing the effectiveness of its techniques.

On Striking

Back when I first started learning aikido, I had a problem with the notion that, at first, the attacks and throws were staged. Someone throws a punch; you turn and apply kotegaeshi. Someone grabs your wrist; your enter and execute shihonage. I understood that these were just drills, that they were meant to train our muscle memory so that, in the heat of battle, we’d intuitively recognize when we could apply a specific technique. Still, while I logically understood what we were doing, there was a part of me that struggled. What if my attacker resisted at this point? Or this other point? What if they didn’t turn like they’re supposed to?

One of the answers I was given was very simple: hit them. I was initially appalled–didn’t I start this art in order to avoid hitting my opponent in the first place? Wasn’t one of the basic attractions of a martial art like aikido is that you don’t have to hit? The answer that came back to me on this question was: which is kinder? Your fist, or gravity? I accepted this question and the answer it implied: the power of my fist was negotiable, the power of someone meeting concrete or asphalt at a high rate of speed was not. So I acknowledged the notion that, under certain circumstances, if the attacker resisted illogically–that is, if they resisted the technique at a point where they were not in a position to either escape or counter attack–then a swift strike was not only appropriate, it was potentially a kinder way to end the conflict.

Recently, however, I was watching a few folks who study striking arts, when I noticed something: hitting someone takes work. It is not easy on the arms or the hands. In fact, just as we’re often told that a poorly executed shomenuchi strike with a sword might bounce off an opponent’s armor, I could easily see that a poorly executed strike could, quite possibly, have zero impact on your opponont. Hardly a desired outcome! And there’s an additional issue too: I wonder how many people skate by on their aikido technique, thinking to themselves “Well, if it doesn’t work, I can always clock’em?” This mindset leads to poor technique and laziness at best.

As many who study a striking art might attest, hitting someone correctly requires training, just as taking someone off balance requires training. Boxers do not work out with speed bags because it looks cool. It is training. Karateka do not spend their time punching makiwara because it makes a pleasing sound. It is training. Any art that relies on a punch or strike trains to make that strike as deadly and as efficient as possible. In aikido, however, we do not spend as much time learning how to strike. This is understandable: our focus is on a different aspect of the conflict. (This is not to say we do not study how to hit; we just don’t study it at the same level as other arts do.) Yet we must be honest with ourselves: if we do not know how to hit, we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of saying: “Well, if my opponent attacks poorly or resists, I’ll simply hit them.” To do so not only allows one to slack off on correct technique, but provides a dangerous false aura of security.

Of course, hitting in aikido is not always incorrect or out of place. One of the amazing things about aikido is that the initial movement to take someone off balance quite often puts yourself in a spot where a strike can be absolutely devastating. I know of many people, myself included, who have stopped in the middle of a technique, realizing suddenly just how vulnerable our opponent has become. It speaks to the mindset of the aikidoka why we often strive not to take advantage of this vulnerability, that we prefer to the control of the throw over the control of the punch when an opponent is unable to defend themselves. But each of us must choose: if you wish to have a strike be an option, however rarely used, then you must put in the time to learn how to strike correctly and well. If you choose not to strike, then you must ensure that your timing is perfect and that your technique is sure–you can have no illusion of a safety net should you fail to take your opponent’s balance. I do not think it is necessary to judge which path is better; but it is important to realize that the road in-between, where you consider a strike a viable tool but do not seek to study how to use it, that road is a road that can lead to diaster.

Looking Back: 2007

Now that the new year has arrived, I’ve been meaning to take a few moments and reflect about the past year. I admit that I’ve been putting it off a little–not because there isn’t much to write about; instead, there’s been so much that has happened I find myself wondering where to begin. Well, I could debate where and how to start forever; so, without further adieu, I’m going to just plunge in and discuss what comes to mind when I think about the past year.

Perhaps the most important thing that happened this year was that we were all, as a dojo, truly fortunate to deepen our relationship with Sensei. Twice this past year he visited the Northwest; the first time in June as a personal visit, again in November as part of the first International Convention in Seattle (more on that later). I know that I can personally say that Sensei’s visits were truly inspirational–not just because his own technique and presence is so remarkable, but because he truly showed how important it was that we, his students, have the best chance to capture the strategies and techniques of our art. I am relatively confident that the rest of the dojo felt the same way–from folks who have barely started their training to those who have studied for several years now. And to think that Sensei is visiting again next week! Truly, this a golden time for Kokikai in the Northwest.

I can’t talk about Sensei without also talking about the International Convention in Seattle that took place in November. All the planning and preparations that we started way back in June (!) really paid off. The event was a huge success in every sense of the word–from the record number of participants, to the tremendous positive feeling that was generated by everyone during the weekend event. I made so many friends that I have lost count–but I feel particularly honored to have gotten to know Joe and Honda, two of Sensei’s students from Japan. A few things that I will always remember: the immensely crowded mat; the fact that, despite the crowd, there were absolutely no injuries other than the occasional mat burn; the presence of Sensei as he watched everyone practice the techniques he showed. My goal for next time: to be sure that I can spend more time on the mat! I freely admit that I felt pulled in a few million directions, so perhaps next time I can reduce that to a few thousand. And I can’t write about the training without writing about the party that Saturday! What a great time. I enjoyed seeing how everyone pretty much took over the entire main floor of the hotel. I can honestly say that there isn’t a single experience from that event that I don’t look back upon fondly, but I must again mention the tremendous help of people like my wife, my senior students, and even the family members of the dojo who were so eager to help make the event a success. The next one will not come soon enough!

Talking about the convention makes me think about the progress so many students have made. First, of course, we had three students test for shodan–the first group of shodan candidates who have tested from our dojo. That was an emotional and inspiring moment. I don’t think people quite realize the work that some of these students have put in over the years. I could easily take their efforts for granted or as my “due” as their teacher, but I don’t. They train for themselves; I just try to facilitate their efforts. But their actions were not the only ones that should be recognized: we had a few students test for different levels of brown belt, and they did very well. (I look forward to seeing their own shodan tests in the next year or two!) I also must mention just how much progress all the new people have made. In fact…

I have to add a separate topic that talks about all the new people who have joined the dojo in the past year. Roughly a year ago, we were a small dojo with about 15 students. Now, we are over 50 strong, and continue to grow at a record pace. Our kids program is thriving, and I am so especially pleased to see them progress and enjoy their training. The teen and adult classes have proven themselves to not just be a group of people taking a class, but a community of people who really want to understand Kokikai Aikido and how it can apply to their own lives. I cannot understate how inspiring it is for me to see someone step onto the mat for the first time, or to see them test for their first belt. Those are moments that take great courage–something that can be easy to forget when you have been training for a while.

Writing about the new year also makes it inevitable to put forth a couple of new year’s resolutions. My own is simple: train! This year, I plan to spend more time improving my overall level of physical fitness and deepening my understanding of Kokikai Aikido. This task would have been difficult to do a year or so ago; now, however, we have many students who are becoming excellent and articulate ukes, so I can really experiment with how techniques work. Already, in the past few weeks, I can feel the difference in my movements. And, to be honest, I’m chuckling to myself, because it seems that one of the main challenges when you are the chief instructor is ensuring you have time for both your own training and assisting others in their training. No doubt next year’s resolution might tip me back in the other direction, but this is what training is all about–finding balance.

A belated happy new year to all!

Shodan

It is nearing the end of the International Convention. We have been training for the past couple of hours, and the energy level in the room is palpable. With a gentle wave of his hand, Sensei bids us to scoot back to the very edge of the mat. As I proceed to join the rest of the participants, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s one of the senior students in Kokikai. “Come sit over here by us,” he says, and we line up along the edge of the mat, facing the open space.

Another instructor, standing near Sensei, is holding a clipboard in her hands. Her voice rings out:

“It is time for testing! For SHODAN….” and she begins calling out a list of names. With each name, a person rises from the midst of the students and runs calmly and efficiently towards the center of the mat, where they then turn, face the audience, and sit in seiza. I am very nearly beside myself, for three of my own students are among the test candidates.

For those who do not train in the martial arts, acquiring one’s blackbelt seems a significant event. And indeed it is, but not for the reasons that you might think. Say the words “black belt” and one immediately thinks of martial art movies, corny catch phrases like “My hands are lethal weapons.” In other words, we equate the black belt to mastery of a given martial art. And, no doubt, there are many martial art schools who encourage or foster this mindset, either by making the path to black belt extremely grueling, or by offering special “instruction paths” that are the only way to achieve the rank.

If you haven’t figured this out by now, let me be clear: the idea that a black belt signifies mastery of anything is nonsense. It is the equivalent of an undergraduate degree in college: a very significant accomplishment, but you are by no means an expert. I currently hold the rank of sandan, or 3rd degree black belt, and the notion that even this rank bestows some sense of mastery of aikido is absurd. In other words, mastery is an elusive, ambigious concept, and acquiring it has nothing to do whatsoever with your rank. I always chuckle when I see people advertising that they are a “10th degree black belt” or that they are a “master” of a martial art. Being a master is not a title–it is a state of mind, and the real masters see no need to advertise their capabilities.

But I digress. If a black belt, or shodan, rank does not signify mastery, what does it mean? The answer is simple: competency. At the shodan level, you are demonstrating that you have learned and studied enough that you can competently step onto the mat and demonstrate the principles, strategies, ideas, and techniques that form our particular martial art. This is a tremendous accomplishment, if for no other reason than because so few actually attempt to reach this level of proficiency. It is also an important milestone because it says, in effect, that you are eventually willing to take on the responsibility of pushing the martial art to the next level in the years to come. After all, this year’s shodans are tomorrow’s sandans, and today’s sandans may become, eventually, the future leaders of the art. I mention this because many people consider the rank of shodan only in the context of what it means for their skills as individuals. It’s important to realize that it also has a context in the martial art as a whole. Tell someone you are a “blue belt” and they will nod knowingly, but have little understanding as to what your skill level really is. But someone finds out your a blackbelt? At that point, you are THE representative of your style, whether you like it or not.

But reaching shodan is not just a burden of leadership–it is an opportunity for real personal growth. Something happens when you become a shodan–you have the opportunity and the capability to really delve into your art, explore it, pick it apart and put it back together. You have already demonstrated that you have the physical skills–now is the time to hone those skills in a way that best suits you. This is why I hope that everyone who steps onto the mat eventually reaches the level of shodan–because I want everyone to have the opportunity to explore this art at its deepest and most personal levels.

This past November, when my dojo had its first students test for shodan, I began thinking about what black belts mean to a dojo. I’ve come to two conclusions so far–first, it is a testament to the dojo itself, as a community. No one reaches shodan on their own; you get their through the combination of your own efforts plus those who have taught you, trained with, and learned from you. I must admit: seeing my students test well told me that our club is indeed doing its part to continue the study of Kokikai Aikido made me very happy. Not because it proved my skills as an instructor–far from it–but because it showed that we were not a dojo of just one person, but a dojo that has an ever-increasing depth of skill and passion.

This brings me to my second conclusion: the introduction of blackbelts in our dojo signifies that our dojo no longer relies on one person. When I first started teaching, I was the only one who could run the show. If I wasn’t around, the dojo literally shut down. Now, however, I have taken a week off on occasion to find that the dojo runs very well in my absence. (Sometimes almost too well–but such is life!) It is a pleasure to return to the dojo from a break and see that everyone continues to study, learn, and thrive. I firmly believe that, for any dojo to thrive, it must not be a cult of personality, but a collective group that studies together. Seeing students test for their shodan was a validation of this fact.

I must, in the interest of full disclosure, admit that these thoughts did not just come to me as I sat watching testing that day. They’ve been on my mind for some time. In fact, the first time I started thinking about this occurred just over a year ago, when a good friend of mine decided to join our dojo shortly after reaching his own shodan. While I could not, at the time, claim him as my student, he acclimated so well and provided a clear and solid example to others what it meant to be a senior student. It was amazing how quickly he became a part of the dojo. While the dojo can’t claim him as its first shodan, I’m sure it will claim him as its first nidan in the not too distant future.

There are constant discussions over how to determine the strength of a given martial art, or a given martial art club. One thing I would encourage anyone to do is to look at the senior students of that dojo. Are they strong? Independent? Welcoming? Such traits, I think, imply a school that is worth considering.

I belive I have rambled enough on this post–writing it has shown me that I have more to think about. But I would like to end with a personal thank you to all my senior students, and all those who have supported them in the dojo. Their efforts to improve our club and our community have been tremendous, and they deserved to be thanked far more often they are. I look forward to the next group of students testing for shodan next year!